hat scrap of paper could not be
the hand of an oppressor of widows and orphans. "This," said John to
himself, "is what he meant when he 'supposed it wouldn't take me long to
find out what was in my stocking.'"

* * * * *

The door opened and a blast and whirl of wind and snow rushed in,
ushering the tall, bent form of the Widow Cullom. The drive of the wind
was so strong that John vaulted over the low cash counter to push the
door shut again. The poor woman was white with snow from the front of
her old worsted hood to the bottom of her ragged skirt.

"You are Mrs. Cullom?" said John. "Wait a moment till I brush off the
snow, and then come to the fire in the back room. Mr. Harum will be in
directly, I expect."

"Be I much late?" she asked. "I made 's much haste 's I could. It don't
appear to me 's if I ever see a blusteriner day, 'n I ain't as strong as
I used to be. Seemed as if I never would git here."

"Oh, no," said John, as he established her before the glowing grate of
the Franklin stove in the back parlor, "not at all. Mr. Harum has not
come in himself yet. Shall you mind if I excuse myself a moment while
you make yourself as comfortable as possible?" She did not apparently
hear him. She was trembling from head to foot with cold and fatigue and
nervous excitement. Her dress was soaked to the knees, and as she sat
down and put up her feet to the fire John saw a bit of a thin cotton
stocking and her deplorable shoes, almost in a state of pulp. A
snow-obliterated path led from the back door of the office to David's
house, and John snatched his hat and started for it on a run. As he
stamped off some of the snow on the veranda the door was opened for him
by Mrs. Bixbee. "Lord sakes!" she exclaimed. "What on earth be you
cavortin' 'round for such a mornin' 's this without no overcoat, an' on
a dead run? What's the matter?"

"Nothing serious," he answered, "but I'm in a great hurry. Old Mrs.
Cullom has walked up from her house to the office, and she is wet
through and almost perished. I thought you'd send her some dry shoes and
stockings, and an old shawl or blanket to keep her wet skirt off her
knees, and a drop of whisky or something. She's all of a tremble, and
I'm afraid she will have a chill."

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

"Certain! certain!" said the kind creature, and she bustled out of the
room, returning in a minute or two with an armful of comforts. "There's
a p